


the hand that mocked, the heart that fed

by murphysics



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Angst, Gen, Hopeful, M/M, Mind Meld, Or not, Post-Canon, Sad, Spoilers for S4, all is well, idk what it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:13:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23595895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murphysics/pseuds/murphysics
Summary: Jon leaves the house in the morning, and walks a few miles to the beach. The air is salty. There’s no one here, no lines of pulsing, vivid terror to trace and to hunt and to catch, and Jon is calm.*(Few years after stopping the Apocalypse, Jon feels it's time to call Jonah Magnus again.)
Relationships: Jonah Magnus & Jonathan Sims, background jonmartin - Relationship
Comments: 2
Kudos: 37





	the hand that mocked, the heart that fed

**Author's Note:**

> a scene came to my mind, and i felt like if i won't write it, i'll burst. this is small ficlet where all is WELL. 
> 
> tw: blindness.

Martin sounds worried, when Jon tells him it’s time, but it’s gentle and familiar and Jon feels like Martin’s doing it to show he cares, not because he thinks there will be some danger - and he appreciates that. Martin’s half-wrapped in the fog of Lonely, but his hands are warm on Jon’s, on Jon’s face where he’s tracing the scars, on his nape when he tilts to kiss Jon’s forehead. All his smiles have a special music to them. 

Jon leaves the house in the morning, and walks a few miles to the beach. The air is salty. There’s no one here, no lines of pulsing, vivid terror to trace and to hunt and to catch, and Jon is calm. 

He gives himself a few moments to sit on the sand, glad there’s no breath to catch - that would have been a pretty solid indication of his inability to keep up his physique on the decent level. Smiling stopped feeling alien to Jon’s face a while ago, but a feeling of muscle memory working, when he does, is still novel, startling almost. 

He takes sneakers off and puts his legs in the warm water. 

Where the water can’t reach, he draws eyes on the sand. 

  
  
  


Jon falls asleep and is woken up by a crack of the door that shouldn’t be here - but it is, and he’s glad to feel Helen’s presence, a familiar twist to reality, small and almost comforting in comparison to some of the other twists he’s seen. 

“That is very careless, Archivist,” she notes, cheerfully, without coming closer. “I’ll be here if you need me.” 

The door closes; distortive flow moving through Jon’s surroundings disappears, leaving soft, quiet footsteps. 

In the blurry image - impression - of the beach, collected from the wind, water, and stillness, that is still - vaguely - marked with terror, Jonah’s gaze feels overwhelming and heavy, and Jon, unexpectedly for himself, grins with a humming static in the direction of it. 

“Can’t believe you wore oxfords to the beach,” he says, propping himself up on the elbow. 

Jonah sits beside him, and the weight of his eyes shift towards the sea. He smells like rain and books and black coffee. It _stings;_ like simplicity Jon misses when indulges himself. 

“Let’s do it, then,” he says, when it becomes obvious Jonah’s not going to talk. He feels movement - Elias’ familiar curt nod. “ _Show me_.” 

Jonah Magnus opens his eyes - everywhere - and the Ceaseless Watcher starts ringing in Jon’s head. An angry animal, still seeing and knowing and taunting, but forever trapped in the Flatland it came from. 

Jonah wheezes, as pain folds him in half, Jon sees through his eyes - through shouting of their patron - as Jonah hugs his knees. He’s pale, his hands skinnier than Jon remembers, and he’s in _jeans,_ and that’s the last thing he notices. Jonah’s eyes see all the terrors left, drink them in, and it’s time to tell the Eye their stories. 

Jon starts talking.

  
  
  


When he regains consciousness, it’s a late evening; his trousers are wet near the calves, but he’s not cold. He feels sated, and sickened about it, frantically moves his hands over the sand around himself in a moment of silent, numb panic, trying to reach, to find… 

“Jon,” he hears, and breathes out, fighting the urge to swear. In a bright flesh, he sees himself - lonely, dark figure under the starlight, black holes staring out of his scarred face. He sees posh shoes near himself, the yellow door few dozens meters away, Jonah's rolled-up jeans, his thin legs in the dark water. 

Jonah’s _projecting,_ for the first time in years, without being compelled; projecting something that isn’t aimed to hurt. 

(Jon’s not sure he still needs to compel him, doesn't think he can stand thinking about it. He still didn’t come in terms with Elias being Jonah being a monster to start dealing with his humanity.)

Jon stands up and wants to go to Helen when Jonah looks up. Jon catches the image instantly and shivers. 

_So sky doesn't look back_ , he thinks and laughs to himself, and it’s short and surprised, and Jonah Magnus shuts him off his thoughts. 

  
  
  


“Made this for your voice,” Martin says, putting the cup with - cocoa? As it seems - into his hands.

“Thanks,” Jon smiles and squeezes Martin’s fingers in gratitude. He knows he wants to talk about their upcoming trip to Egypt (which, ideally, has to soothe some of Jon’s academic thirst - and Martin has a meeting with some antique collector whose clientele is really suspicious). 

Jon waits for him to collect his thoughts, and agrees on everything he proposes.

“I swear, if you complain when we get there..” Martin starts, and Jon feels him fighting a wide grin. 

“I’m confident I can weather the consequences,” he responds. 

They laugh. 

  
  
  


The whole next month, Jon dreams about stars he's thought he'll never see. 

**Author's Note:**

> i'm still not native, so if you spot mistakes, come yell at me. join my magnus s5 wails on twitter: https://twitter.com/mrskinseyfour


End file.
